


under the heel of a devil

by shatteredhourglass



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Western, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Awesome Clint Barton, Chaos, Deputy Steve Rogers, Disasters, Established James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, Exhibitionism, Flirting, Hand Jobs, Hydra (Marvel), M/M, Minor Character Death, Mostly Idiocy, Multi, Outlaw Bucky Barnes, Outlaw Clint Barton, POV Clint Barton, Semi-Public Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-18
Packaged: 2021-02-07 06:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 15,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21453823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: An E-rated, historically inaccurate comedy action romance about two outlaws and the deputy they harass along the way. (For Marvel Trumps Hate 2019)
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton, James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton/Steve Rogers
Comments: 101
Kudos: 253
Collections: Marvel Trumps Hate 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hawksonfire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawksonfire/gifts).

> For Arson! Hope it's everything you dreamed it would be, buddy. 
> 
> I had an interesting relationship with this fic and just learning about the old west in general, and it was quite a ride. I'm Australian and my historical knowledge of America is almost zero, and I swung wildly between not caring even slightly about accuracy and waking up in a cold sweat at 3am googling what kind of hair clips they used back then. 
> 
> In conclusion, if you care about historical accuracy in your fics, I'm not your guy.

The saloon is packed to the rafters, but the whole place goes quiet when Clint walks in.

There’s a lot of possibilities for the sudden quiet. It could be the bright purple work shirt under his vest, for one. These people are all wearing various shades of brown that don’t look anything like that, so it could even be the black he’s wearing with the purple. It could be the bandages swathing half the visible skin on his body. It could even be the bow slung over his back - it’s probably not the _guns_, at least, because everyone in here is sporting at least two of those on their person.

Clint offers a smile to the crowds of people, keeps walking instead of lingering in the doorway. He knows what he’s doing, after all, and it doesn’t matter what issues they take with his appearance.

It could just be that he’s a stranger in this small town.

Hell, it can barely be _called _a town, there’s only a post office and the saloon. Everything else is empty and decrepit, and there’s a corpse laid out in the main street. Clint had stepped on it earlier. Or, _in _it, more precisely, because it was pretty goddamn ripe. (It was disgusting.)

The mingling people in their dirt-coated clothes don’t exactly move for him, but he makes his way through the saloon anyway, offering a cheerful nod to anyone who makes eye contact.

“Alright, boys, what’re we playing for?”

The group at the table follow his movements in unison as Clint pulls out the final chair, sits himself in it and kicks his boots up onto the table comfortably. The easy smile stays on his face as he gestures at the woman behind the bar, holds up two fingers. His drink arrives as he’s studying the table, taking in the cards and dirty, half-filled glasses.

“Come on, folks,” he says to the various frowns he’s getting. “Let a man lose his money respectably. I’ve been out in the sun all day travelling, I could use a little entertainment.”

“Ante up,” a man growls finally, and Clint happily sets a pile of gold coins on the table. One woman’s eyes go wide with shock and she pushes a stack of chips next to his feet. Clint turns his attention to his drink, drags a finger around the rim and looks at the black muck sticking to his fingertips. Yikes. He’s drank worse over the years, though, so he downs it in one go and takes the cards he’s dealt.

A two of spades and a seven of hearts.

It’s not the ideal hand - far from it, actually. Ah, what the hell. He throws a few chips into the middle and settles himself into focusing on the game, as the people in the bar continue to stare at the newcomer with the absurd amount of coins.

He’s losing.

He’s losing at a truly _astounding _rate and there’s a small group surrounding them now, watching him place more and more coins on the table for the gleeful woman with the chips. He goes all in at the worst time, he folds with a good hand, and the bartender is even trying to help him with subtle gestures from her spot. Even the grouchiest man at the table who’s been slumped with his hat pulled low for most of the rounds is grinning with stained teeth.

“You’re real bad at this, mister,” he says.

“I’ll get better,” Clint answers brightly. “Give me a chance, fellas.”

“We ain’t gonna say no to more money,” one of the others says as he starts to deal out the cards.

Clint leans back in his chair once he’s checked the cards. Two of diamonds and ten of spades. Another statistically unlikely win. This is more than a losing streak, this is an absolute mess and Clint still grins at them, continues to play after buying a round for everyone at the table.

“I hear this place is where those Hydra boys are hanging about,” he says casually. “You folks know anything about that?”

“Why d’you ask?”

“Oh, just wondering,” Clint replies. “Heard rumours that they were bothering some folks in the surrounding towns. Stealing all their money, harming the women, leaving nothing but ruins behind them, all kinds of bad.

Silence.

“I heard they were even _cheating_ at cards to get money from weary travelers who don’t know any better. You nice people wouldn’t know anything about that, though, would you? All in.”

One man lays down his cards, stands up. He’s well past six feet, nearly bursting out of his clothes with the amount of muscle on him - and Clint’s not exactly _small _either - and his slicked back hair shines in the low lighting. Clint recognizes him vaguely from a description he’s been given - Rollins, presumably - stays relaxed and easy as the man stares him down. He’s aware it’s supposed to be threatening, but his brain isn’t wired like that.

“If you know about it, why’re you playing?” Rollins asks the question warily, but Clint just flips his cards over, reveals the pair of aces in his hand. The bartender gasps.

Everyone’s watching them still, although the chatter that’s previously permeated the room is gone.

The people at the table are particularly fixated on him as he grins, slow and dangerous, the kind of thing that makes people nervous.

“Oh, I wasn’t trying to _win_,” Clint supplies, offers them a saucy wink. “I was just distracting you while my partner stole all the money you took. He’s no good with people, you see. That’s my job.”

“Check the safe,” Rollins snaps, but there’s already a man running in from the back, a bruise colouring on his face as he screams about a man with one arm knocking him out cold.

“You’re that guy,” one of the others says as they look at Clint. “Hawkeye Barton.”

Clint glances sideways at the wanted poster on the wall that no one had thought to point out yet. Maybe it’s because he cut his hair. It’s a pretty terrible drawing anyway, they haven’t captured his rugged handsomeness.

“I don’t know, that doesn't look right,” he replies. “Am I?”

Guns are drawn in unison and Clint flips the table with ease, knocks them off-balance as he pulls the revolver out of its holster. A few shots ring out but they go wide, one hitting the saloon wall and Clint backsteps a few meters, clicks the safety off his own gun. Rollins smacks the table aside just as Clint steps onto the porch and shoots at the weak-looking cluster of wooden beams he’d noticed earlier.

They come crashing down to block the saloon entrance and Clint whoops, then catches an enraged stare from a window and goes silent. Yeah, he probably shouldn’t push his luck. He’s pissed them off enough for one night.

He turns around and whistles.

The din from inside gets even louder as the tan horse trots up to him from an alleyway, saddle bags bulging with money. Clint grins at the shadowed figure sitting astride the horse, slings his way onto Lucky’s back behind him.

“You could just get out of there without the theatrics, you know,” Bucky says.

“I could. I choose not to,” Clint concedes as they start moving. A crash sounds from the direction of the saloon and they speed up, and Clint can’t help glancing back to see Rollins and his gang clambering out the window and starting to aim at them. Lucky breaks into a gallop and he nearly forgets to hold on, quickly slings an arm around Bucky’s waist.

“By the way,” he yells at the group as a bullet whizzes by his ear. “The coins are fake!”

“I think they’re angry enough, Barton,” Bucky shouts.

Clint turns his head to give Bucky a snarky reply and gets a mouthful of hair instead.

Well, at least they got the money.

“Provoking them was a bad idea,” Bucky says as Clint lifts his head from the river, pushes his wet hair back. It ends up sticking straight up in the air instead, but as long as it’s not dripping in his face he doesn’t care. He wanders back to the log Bucky’s sitting on, seats himself on comfortably muscled thighs.

Clint takes a look at the supplies they’ve got spread out. He almost wishes they’d kept some of the money they’d taken, but that hadn’t been the point. Hopefully the people they’d given it back to will be able to hold onto it this time. Bucky had been pretty thorough with teaching them how to defend themselves from gangs, so Clint’s pretty sure they’ll be okay.

“They’re going to be looking for us,” Bucky comments.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “We should probably head away from here, bother some other people who don’t know anything about us.”

“Where’re you thinking?”

“Well,” Clint says thoughtfully. “The law’s looking for us _here _and _here_, and there’s a massive bounty on our heads up north, so not there. I think the brothel _here _still wants my head on a stick for a situation that was absolutely not my fault, and over _here’s _out of the question too.”

“You’re makin’ life real difficult here,” Bucky says. “Think there’s a town somewhere in the United States where you ain’t pissed anyone off?”

“Impossible. But I know where we should go next,” Clint says. Presses one finger to a spot on the stained map they’ve been carrying around. Bucky’s breath is warm in his ear, and there’s a pause while he takes in the town Clint’s chosen. “About time you went home, wasn’t it, Barnes?”

“I’m starting to think you’re trying to aggravate me on purpose,” Bucky says finally, but he reaches around to adjust so Clint’s pointing a few inches southwest. “There.”

“Let’s go find some trouble, Bucko,” Clint says with barely-suppressed delight, twists around to press a kiss to Bucky’s jaw. He earns himself a scowl, but it’s one of the ‘_I’m amused by your shenanigans but I don’t want to encourage your bullshit_’ ones, so he takes it as a win.

“You’re a pain,” Bucky says.

“I want to see where you grew up,” Clint wheedles, squirms very pointedly on Bucky’s lap. “C’mon, it’ll be a blast. We can have some fun. I’ll even try to stay out of trouble while we’re there, promise. No one will even notice me.”

“I sincerely doubt that,” Bucky answers.

“Why didn’t you handcuff him?”

“How the hell am I supposed to handcuff him, huh? You want to go find another hand to do that, be my guest,” the second deputy - Wilson? Yeah, his name is Sam Wilson- snaps. They’re just lucky that the aching of Clint’s head hasn’t eased enough for him to attempt escape yet. Clint snickers at them even as he’s shoved into the cramped cell, doesn’t try to stifle it even as he’s scowled at by both his partner and the other men.

“I think it’s still rotting out in a ditch somewhere,” Bucky says dryly.

“I’m going to tie the horses round back and then go look for Rumlow,” the other man says. “See if we get any compensation for catching these idiots for the millionth time.”

Wilson sighs and gestures for Clint to put his hands through the bars to uncuff him now they’re locked in. Clint does so obediently because he feels a little bad for this guy. He always looks so tired when he has to deal with them - except for last week, when Bucky had fallen through the roof and scared the shit out of him. Then he’d looked terrified. Otherwise, he just seems to be sick of the two of them.

“Bother me and I’ll ‘accidentally’ shoot you in the foot,” Wilson says.

“I’m going to put horse shit in your shoes,” Bucky answers.

They seem to like bickering with each other. Clint leaves them to it, wanders the few steps to the other end of the cell and pokes at the left corner of wall curiously. They’ve patched the weak spot up since last time, the bastards. There’s no way he can dig through this, especially when he doesn’t have his belt buckle to knock it out properly. He glances around at the other weak spots they’ve fixed - the loose bar looks stable now.

Bastards.

He sighs and sits down on the threadbare mattress, lets the outside noises filter out. It’s easy when he’s not watching someone’s lips move, and he wonders again if his hearing’s going to disappear like it did when he was a kid. Clint’s always waiting for it to happen, but he’s been lucky with it so far.

Funnily enough, he gets less blows to the head as an outlaw than he did with his pa.

Bucky grumbles out a string of curse words and kicks the bars of the jail.

“We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t dared me to catch that horse,” Clint says.

“I _didn’t _dare you to catch that horse,” Bucky grumbles. “You asked me if I thought it’d be a good idea to lasso the thing while it was being sent away on a train, and I said _no_. ‘s not my fault if you ain’t listening to common sense and got dragged half a mile along in the dirt.”

“And it’s not my fault the law was waiting for us when the train stopped!”

“That’s absolutely your fault,” Bucky says. “And now they’ve got Lucky _and _that asshole white thing.”

“Don’t call him an asshole. He just needs a bit of loving,” Clint replies easily.

“He ain’t getting any loving if we get killed by the law,” Bucky reasons, grimacing as he leans back against a particularly rough part of steel. “Probably just get sent back to wherever they were shippin’ him off to. Some kinda factory, maybe. Nobody wants a horse that mean.”

“You don’t fool me with your tough love act,” Clint says, wagging a finger at Bucky. “You wouldn’t have liked it if the horse had died either.”

“Fucking horse,” Bucky mutters, and Clint pouts.

Bucky just rolls his eyes back. Clint knows he’s right, though, so he doesn’t worry about it. Bucky had been considered mean and ‘beyond help’ before he had come along, too. To be fair, Bucky’s _still _kind of mean, but in the kind of way that makes Clint feel settled and warm inside the confines of his chest. It means Bucky cares, even if he’s too much of an asshole to say it out loud most of the time.

“Oh, thank the Lord,” Wilson says as the door creaks. He practically springs out of his seat and Bucky lifts his head curiously. “I’m out of here, they’re your problem until Rumlow gets back from out of town.”

“They? What do you mean- oh. Right.”

“Hey there, Deputy,” Clint greets cheerfully, and Deputy Steve Rogers presses his hand to his face as Wilson leaves.

Clint’s not sure if the reaction is because they’re back in his jail _again _or because he wasn’t around to be the one to bring them in for the hundredth time.

One of these days he’s going to give up. It isn’t today, based on the way he sits down in the rickety chair and eyes them off like he expects one of them to slip between the bars. It’s a shame that Clint hasn’t figured out how to do that yet.

“Bucky,” Steve says, some form of greeting.

“Steve,” Bucky returns. “You want to be a pal and unlock this?”

“You know I can’t do that, Buck,” comes the reply. “You’re wanted in forty different places, and Barton’s wanted in twice that many. The law says that-”

“The law _says_,” Bucky interrupts with a snort. “Sure. Keep tellin’ me about the law, I’m real interested. ‘s not like I’m an outlaw or nothing.”

Clint refrains from laughing at that. Bucky’s a menace at the best of times and also at the worst of times. Then again, they’ve been on trial so many times that it just doesn’t feel threatening anymore. Clint _does _wish they’d upgrade the facilities in this cell. Would it kill them to put a nicer mattress down once in a while?

“I don’t understand why you came back,” Steve says to Bucky, who rolls his eyes. “Just to harass the locals, to break the law? Is _he _forcing you to do all of this?”

_He_. That’s not exactly polite, especially for a man who’s supposed to be ‘doing the right thing.’ Clint knows that Steve knows his name. He doesn’t take it personally, though, just grins at Steve when his gaze drifts over. Steve looks away from him quickly, breaks eye contact almost instantly. He still seems nervous about Clint’s presence.

“You think that idiot can make me do anything I don’t want to?”

“He’s the brains,” Clint supplies cheerfully. “I’m the- uh. The charm? Yeah, that seems about right. I’m charming, right, Bucky?”

“The saloon is more charming than you are,” Bucky retorts. “And I’m pretty sure the whiskey was poisoning folks last week. Lang was practically livin’ in the john on Tuesday.”

Clint snorts, takes in Steve’s faintly puzzled expression in the background of Bucky’s half-smirk. He’s clearly got no idea how they work at all, and Clint’s more than happy to keep him guessing. It’s entertaining, more than anything else.

“Lang should be telling us when there’s criminals in the saloon,” Steve says.

“Guess we’re just not that threatening,” Bucky answers. “Maybe that should be a sign we shouldn’t be locked up, Stevie.”

“Don’t call me that,” Steve mutters with a frown, turns away.

Bucky doesn’t really talk about what happened when they were kids.

Clint doesn’t push it, either - it’s not like Bucky asks about Barney or the rest of his family either. They’ve gotten by just fine without exposing every sharp edge of themselves, but the thing with Steve Rogers is something else entirely. It doesn’t seem to be bad memories, or some kind of shared trauma. It’s more the kind of sexual tension that’s so thick that he could slice into it with the knife Wilson had stolen from him.

Clint’s not sure if they ever slept together. He’s pretty sure that if they _had_, though, they wouldn’t look at each other like that.

He’d asked Bucky once in a moment of vague insecurity if he’d ever leave to be with Steve instead. Bucky had smacked him with the wanted poster he’d ripped off the wall and called him an idiot with horseshit for brains and pulled him behind a shed to suck him off, and that had been that. Clint’s not so worried about that now.

Honestly, he’s more worried about the fact that _he _wants to bang Deputy Rogers as well.

“You fallin’ asleep, Barton?”

Bucky gets closer and Clint spreads his legs invitingly, lets Bucky step between them. Like this, Bucky’s blocking out most of the sunlight from the window. It’s nice, makes him feel solid and real against the browns and greys of the jail. He’s warm where the outside of his legs are pressing against the inside of Clint’s. His rough hand presses against Clint’s cheek, comforting, and Clint turns his face into it to nip at Bucky’s wrist.

He doesn’t hear Bucky’s breath catch, but he knows anyway. Hides his smile in Bucky’s palm as he presses a soft kiss there as well. “Maybe I am, Barnes.”

“How’re we going to get out of here if you’re taking a nap?”

“We’re not getting out of here,” Clint says absently, bites at Bucky’s finger when it curls too close to his mouth. “Not right now, at least. May as well be rested up for a jailbreak. Looking this pretty doesn’t happen when I don’t get to relax, Bucko.”

Bucky shifts restlessly against his legs, takes his hand away. Clint almost demands for it to come back, but then he sees the hairline cracks in Bucky’s expression, the nervous energy. It’s endearing in a way that Clint only ever really feels with him, that sort of helpless fond energy that bubbles up in his stomach. He’s got to get his hands up to pull Bucky down against his lips, smile into the kiss a little.

His mouth is dry from being out in the heat all day but it’s good, it’s great, it’s goddamn _excellent _when Bucky braces his hand on Clint’s shoulder and starts kissing back.

Bucky always kisses like he’s half-expecting Clint to disappear at any second - it’s become Clint’s goal to slow it down, soften it up and try to reassure Bucky with his lips alone. He makes a noise when Clint backs off, a little thing that he only catches because they’re so close together. When Clint has a proper look there’s a tiny flush on his cheeks, a hint of _something _in his eyes.

“Keep it down,” Steve says.

Clint leans to the side, looks at the deputy. Steve’s doing something with a piece of paper and a pencil, eyes determinedly fixed on the desk. He’s not looking anywhere near them even though he’s obviously noticed what they’re doing. When Clint gets a better look he can see Steve’s face is redder than Bucky’s, and he’s ignoring them a little _too _obviously. Like he isn’t ignoring them at all.

Huh. _Interesting_.

He taps Bucky’s shoulders to make sure he’s getting all of his attention. “Hey there. You want to help me stay awake? Play a game?”

“We don’t have any cards,” Bucky answers with a distracted frown. “Anyway, you cheat.”

“Not that kind of game,” Clint corrects. Waits for him to get it.

Bucky’s eyes flick to Steve and then back to Clint. Clint lets the smirk slide onto his face real easy, the kind of look that he knows gets Bucky interested. Hey, if they’re going to be stuck in here for a while, they may as well have some fun with it. Especially because of Steve’s reaction to them. Clint’s not going to pretend he understands the thing between Bucky and Steve, but whatever it is mustn’t be too terrible because Bucky shifts closer, lets Clint slide his suspenders off one at a time real slow.

“We’re really doing this here,” Bucky says, but his voice has gone a little rough like he’s enjoying the idea. Getting off on it, maybe. “Dirty goddamn man, Barton.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees. “You got the stuff?”

“Yep. Back pocket.”

“You are the first person I’ve ever truly appreciated,” Clint says as he comes up with the oil. “And you say I’m dirty, huh? Keeping this in your pocket like you’re waiting for it.”

“I wasn’t going to keep it in the goddamn saddlebag for the horse,” Bucky replies.

Clint’s amused by the bossiness, but it doesn’t stop him from unfastening Bucky’s pants one-handed and shoving them down his legs roughly. He does _also _swat at Bucky’s ass for good measure, refrains from smirking when Bucky’s hips twitch forward. Clint tips his head up for another kiss, bites at Bucky’s lips enough to earn himself a moan.

Steve must know what’s going on. There’s no way he can’t tell what they’re doing, even if he isn’t looking. Bucky’s not exactly _quiet_, and he gets louder when Clint wraps slick fingers around his dick and starts pumping slow. He doesn’t look in Steve’s direction. From an outside perspective, his attention is one hundred percent on Bucky - and his attention _is _on Bucky, but it’s also occupied with how Steve might be reacting to the show.

“Make it good, sweetheart, put on a show,” Clint breathes, just loud enough that Bucky’s cheeks flush a little.

“Go to hell,” Bucky whispers to him. Clint uses the hand that isn’t covered in oil to pinch the inside of Bucky’s thigh and he swears, dick twitching under Clint’s fingers. It’s fun playing with him, and knowing there’s someone watching - that there’s_ Steve _watching _\- _makes it even better, the heat prickling up Clint’s spine in a way that has nothing to do with the temperature.

“Bend over properly,” Clint says, lets Bucky shift some weight onto his own shoulders. This puts his ass on display for Steve and he must realize that, doesn’t say anything useful other than a steady stream of curse words when Clint pushes two fingers in to the knuckle.

Clint’s a performer - always has been, always will be, so the idea of doing this in front of Steve feels fine. He’s comfortable and he’s into it, already thinking about what’s going to drive them over the edge.

Bucky _does _get embarrassed, on the other hand, and he already is, but Clint thinks that maybe the embarrassment is part of the fun because Bucky’s _really _into this. His breathing sounds more like sobs and he’s twitching onto Clint’s hands in uneven jerks of his hips. Clint shifts so he can get his free hand back around Bucky’s dick, keeps up the unhurried movements with the other.

This has the added advantage of letting him get closer, lips right up against Bucky’s heated skin. He doesn’t speak loud enough for Steve to overhear. “You think he’s watching?”

Bucky’s hitching moan is all he needs to continue talking.

“Think he’s pitching a tent in his pants listening to all the noise you’re making? Maybe you should ask him if he wants to get his fingers in you too,” Clint murmurs. He’s imagining it too, those firm calloused hands doing more than just pushing them into a cell. They’re meant to be messing with _Steve _but it’s getting him turned on too, the idea of Steve liking it.

“Imagine fucking him,” Bucky mutters back breathlessly and Clint’s breath catches. Hell. That’s _not _fair play, he knows Clint’s been thinking about it since he set eyes on Steve. “He likes being good.”

“Makes sense,” Clint says, because Steve is a lawman after all. It’s still goddamn mesmerizing, the image of Steve asking for it all nicely, maybe red in the face because he blushes so easily. He gets his teeth on Bucky’s neck, tastes skin and sweat as Bucky squirms under his hands. Clint fits in a third finger and curls them hard.

Bucky gasps out a breathless curse and Clint nearly misses the other noise. It’s barely audible, just on the edges of his hearing, but if it wasn’t him and it wasn’t _Bucky_, then it was-

“Oh god,” Bucky says, and his voice is remarkably calm for someone coming as hard as he is. Clint keeps touching him automatically, slowing his touches down even as his mind’s going a million miles an hour. _Oh god_ isn’t the word for it, but it’s as close as they can get. Clint keeps going until Bucky’s legs are shaking and then he eases up, leans back so he can get a look at Bucky’s face.

His expression should be against the law. Clint’s already so turned on he can barely breathe and then there’s Bucky looking like the world’s most irresistible man, pupils blown and strands of hair sticking to his face as he pants. Clint wants to fuck him and make Steve watch.

“How d’you feel about putting your mouth to use?”

Bucky’s eyes flick to the side, back to Clint. Clint’s skin is prickling with heat and he nearly starts cheering on the spot when Bucky straightens up, decides to guide Clint up against the wall next to the bars before he drops to his knees. The change in position gives him the opportunity to glance sideways and it takes all of Clint’s willpower to keep his attention focused on Bucky, but he’s still thinking about what this looks like to Steve. Wonders whether he’s touching himself or not, whether he’s getting distracted from his scribbling.

Bucky licks a wet stripe up his cock and Clint arches his back against the wall, bites off an embarrassing noise. Christ, he’s so _close_, every muscle in his body is aching with it and he needs to-

“Stop it,” Steve says hoarsely, and they look over at him. Clint hadn’t even noticed him _moving_, but there he is, no more than a few inches away, determinedly looking at Clint’s face instead of anything else. Clint admires the dedication, especially because _Steve _looks nearly as messy and undone as Bucky does. “One of you on the other side of the jail, now. Separate.”

Bucky sits back, wipes at his mouth with one hand. He _does_ move, though, wanders to the far corner with a sway to his hips that says he’s just humoring Steve and not respecting his authority. He starts fixing up his clothes automatically, makes a face while he tries to button up his pants.

Clint takes a different route, uses Steve’s distracted look to press himself up against the bars where Steve is, drags a few fingers down that muscled chest teasingly. “Sure you don’t want to join in, deputy?”

Steve jerks back like he’s been burned and Clint lets him go, watches him back away as fast as he can. “The sheriff will be here soon enough,” he mutters. “Behave until then.”

Bucky snorts. “Behave? Us?”

“That’d be hoping for too much,” Clint says agreeably.

“Hey, Rogers,” Bucky says after a while.

Steve doesn’t look up from his desk. There’s a curl to his lips that might be frustration but could reasonably be anything else, considering that he. Clint would feel a little guilty if he hadn’t seen the telltale bulge in his pants before he’d stalked away.

He doesn’t really feel guilty anyway.

Bucky waits silently, and eventually Steve sighs. “What?”

“You know what Clint used to do before we shacked up?”

“Circus,” Steve replies. “The Amazing Hawkeye. I’ve seen the posters.”

Clint grins at that, because yeah, those posters were great. He misses it sometimes, the stage and the crowds. The costumes, shades of purple and blue that none of the seamstresses out here can replicate. It was a unique childhood, for sure, and some days he wonders what would’ve happened if he’d stayed. He wouldn’t trade _this _for anything, though.

“Yeah, he did that. Pretty good marksman, I’m told. And an acrobat.” Clint snorts. _Pretty _good?

Bucky leans up against the bars where Steve’s sitting, rests his gloved hand up against the steel. Steve doesn’t look at him still, more out of stubbornness than anything else, Clint would guess. It’s interesting, watching Steve and Bucky play off against each other. Makes him wonder what they were like back in the day. It’s different now, though, and not just because Clint’s here.

“What does this have to do with anything, Buck?”

Although it is a little bit because Clint’s here.

“See,” Bucky says, “the thing about Barton is, he was also a pretty damn good pickpocket. Still is, actually.”

Steve’s head whips up but it’s too late. He should’ve looked up from the desk, really, because he might’ve noticed Clint escaping while Bucky was talking. Clint throws the keys to Steve as his gaze catches, winks.

Steve catches the keys on reflex, which is exactly what Clint was betting on him doing - it means that he’s got both hands occupied for just long enough that Clint can snatch his gun away. Clint presses the muzzle into his chest, keeps his finger on the trigger as he leans in close, right into Steve’s personal space.

“Thanks for that, Deputy Rogers,” Clint breathes into his ear, grins when he feels Steve twitch. “You’re a pal.”

“Stop teasing him,” Bucky says. “We gotta go. I don’t want to mess with the sheriff, he’s got a reputation.”

“Like you weren’t teasing him earlier,” Clint grumbles, but he backs up obediently, keeps the gun trained on Steve’s face. “What if I want to keep playing with him? How come you get to have all the fun?”

“Because I’m the one with a lick of common sense,” Bucky replies. “See you around, Stevie.”

Steve looks more than a little shellshocked, which is fair given the last couple of hours, but he doesn’t even appear to be _breathing _as Bucky unlatches the back door. Clint pauses, thinks _what the hell_, blows the guy a kiss. Steve goes scarlet immediately and the immediate kick of satisfaction is worth the actual kick he receives from Bucky.

“He’s sweet,” Clint says as they start heading for Natasha’s.

“I know,” Bucky answers. “Keep moving.”

“You boys cause me too much trouble,” Natasha says, or at least that’s what Clint thinks she says. It’s hard to tell over the music and the moaning. She shuts a door on her way down the stairs and that dims the noise a little bit. Clint’s not a massive fan of the brothel in general, but he does love Natasha, and he says as much when he presses his face into the fur she’s wearing, half-smothering himself in the process.She pats his head with some amusement and then hands him a hat when he backs off. It’s exactly the same as the one he’d lost before he’d been caught and he beams at her, takes it cheerfully. Natasha’s his hero, when he’s not being his own.

“It’s strange that they haven’t figured it out yet,” Bucky says, looking down at his shoes. He gets shy about the girls in here, which is _hilarious_ to Clint considering what they just did. Bucky wouldn’t be Bucky if he wasn’t a little peculiar, though, so Clint doesn’t comment. “They figured out who _we_ were easily enough.”

“Have you ever seen Wilson or Rogers in here? They don’t come within miles of the brothel’s doors,” Natasha says with a dismissive wave of her hand. “This is perfectly safe.”

“What about the sheriff?”

“He’s banned,” Natasha answers with the slightest hint of a smile. “I told him he’d lose his fingers if he laid a hand on anyone here again.”

Clint refrains from going out to find the man and beat him within half an inch of his life. He doesn’t like the stories people tell about the sheriff in this town. From what he can gather no one likes Brock Rumlow, or _trusts _him, which is what a sheriff is supposed to be about in the first place. Clint doesn’t like the law that much, but he likes people who use it to do bad things even less.

“Could we get away with shooting him a little, do you think?”

He directs the question at Bucky but Natasha answers instead. “He keeps a group with him. All dangerous and good shooters. Not to mention you’d certainly be hunted and killed for laying hands on a sheriff.”

“He has men just following him around?” That’s suspicious. “Do they _do _anything?”

“They scare people,” Natasha replies simply, seems to grow disinterested with the conversation. “Oh, by the way, your horses are outside. The white one bit one of our girls when she was leading it over here. You’re lucky she was only bleeding a little bit or I would’ve taken compensation for it.”

“Fucking horse,” Bucky grumbles under his breath.

“Is Lucky okay?”

“Lucky is a terrible name for a horse. He’s fine,” Natasha answers. “He’s the only one surviving the other one’s wrath. Must be dumb luck.”

“Or just a dumb horse,” Bucky says. “They take after their owners.”

“Hey,” Clint says halfheartedly, elbows him nowhere near hard enough to hurt. “I don’t bite. Not in a mean way, anyhow. Does that mean the white one’s yours?”

“That horse is hell incarnate and you can’t convince me otherwise,” Bucky says. “I’d better go feed it. Only got one hand for it to bite off, anyhow.”

Bucky ambles in the direction of the back door and Clint watches him go, feels a smile tug at his lips. He figures this thing with the horse is going to go the same way it did when Bucky was pretending he didn’t like Clint - complaining loudly without pause while also feeding, fussing and patching him up every time. It’s oddly endearing.

Clint wonders if he did the same thing with Steve. Hell, maybe Steve did it to _him _and he learned it that way. Clint shoots that idea down immediately. There’s no way. Deputy Rogers has this unique sort of resigned tolerance layered over the top of everything else, but there’s no mean streak to him whatsoever. That’s _also _endearing, in a completely different way.

Natasha starts walking upstairs again and Clint joins her, attention turning away from Bucky for a second.

“You think the sheriff’s up to anything besides being an ass? With that guard and all. Are they lawmen?”

“They’re not,” Natasha replies.

“And here I was thinking we were going to lie low for a while,” Clint says thoughtfully.

“You’ve never laid low a single time in your life,” Natasha replies scornfully, and Clint laughs because yeah, she’s right about that. He’s going to have to go check out this Rumlow guy.

From what he can gather, the sheriff isn’t actually in town that often. He doesn’t _need _to be, really, not with two deputies and a mayor to run things. Clint doesn’t understand why there’s so much in this one town. All the surroundings towns have - well, nothing, because everything in a couple week’s ride is pretty dead due to that Hydra gang being around.

Luckily, the saloon has a back room with at least three easy exit routes and the townspeople are gossips who don’t care about having a criminal in their midst as long as he buys them drinks.

“So what’s the deal with this Brock Rumlow?”

“I avoid him as much as possible, so I don’t really know,” Bruce says, looking down at his glass. “Talking to people like him is… not great for my health.”

“Brock Rumlow is a disgusting pile of horse dung and I’ve got no idea why Pierce made him sheriff,” Tony comments from next to Bruce. Clint’s got no idea why he’s also paying for Tony’s drinks when he owns the saloon and half the buildings in town. “He just rode in one day and then he was in charge of the jail, and god knows what else.”

“At least he’s not in charge of the property,” Clint offers.

“He tried to be,” Tony supplies. “Problem is, he doesn’t have as much money as me and I’m not scared of his little group.”

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Bruce says mildly before he turns back to Clint, offers a slight smile. “Yeah. Unless you’re rich enough to scare them off, it’s best not to mess with Rumlow. He’s bad news.”

“That’s exactly _why _he wants to mess with him,” Bucky grumbles, and Clint grins at him, slings a leg over Bucky’s thigh comfortably. Bucky wrinkles his nose when Clint presses a kiss to his jaw, but he still leans in for more. None of the men here seem bothered by _this_, either, which is pretty good. Clint likes Bucky’s hometown. It’s nice.

“You say that like you aren’t going to help me,” Clint says, and Bucky rolls his eyes. “Don’t play like that with me, Barnes, I live with you.”

“Yeah, I know,” Bucky replies. “You kick me in your sleep. I couldn’t pretend you were elsewhere if I wanted to.”

“You _don’t _want to,” Clint answers happily, turns a sly look on Tony. “He kissed me first.”

Actually it had been more like Bucky had tackled him to the ground to protect him from an exploding train car and their lips had touched, but there’d been a kiss nonetheless. Clint likes telling people the story because most people’s first kiss happens in either school or during an arranged wedding. He likes being exciting, which is probably why he became an outlaw in the first place, come to think of it.

“You’re both disgusting,” Tony says tiredly, pressing his face into his palm.

“A little bit,” Clint says agreeably. “So, we’ve all agreed that Rumlow’s up to something suspicious?”

“Agreed,” Bucky echoes. “So we go and check out his house while he’s not around for more information? You know where he lives?”

They share a mildly blank look. It’s not like they can follow the guy home when they haven’t even seen him before. That’s not helpful. Clint turns his stare onto Bruce, who just lifts one shoulder in a shrug. That’s not helpful either, and he finally looks at Tony, who makes a disgruntled noise and doesn’t supply any answers. Clint sighs and signals for Thor to come over and take his money. Looks like they’re bothering Natasha again.

“Another?”

“Nope,” Clint says. “We’re heading out, since no one knows anything helpful about where Rumlow lives.”

Thor lets out a booming laugh so loud that Bucky flinches slightly under him. Clint just blinks at the man until he scoops up their cash and then slides across an extra drink. Then he sits down, nearly in Bruce’s lap - Bruce isn’t big enough for that, but he doesn’t complain - and leans across the table, eyes bright with amusement.

“I do know that information! If you wait until I am finished with the saloon then I shall take you,” Thor says brightly.

“Thor, I love you and I would happily live as your dutiful wife for the rest of my days,” Clint answers promptly, and Bucky knocks him onto the floor. He’s smirking a little when Clint sits up from the dusty floorboards, though, so Clint just grins at him and then switches his attention back to Thor, who’s watching them with unconcealed delight.

Looks like they've got a plan, then.

“Sure thing, pal,” Clint says. “Much appreciated. If we're waiting, I'll have another drink.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Here we are,” Thor announces. “Do you wish for me to knock?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, already sizing up the darkened house. He’s got that analytical look in his eye that Clint’s always a little bit _into,_ because it means Bucky is about to do something illegal. Wait, does he have a thing for crime? It could just be a Bucky thing, he’s not entirely sure.

Maybe it’s both. Clint’s brain is pretty strange.

“Farewell, then,” Thor says, jolting him out of that train of thought.

“Thanks, buddy,” Clint answers, offers him a wave as he heads off to the house opposite. Clint waits for him to disappear from view before he turns back to Rumlow’s house and Bucky, who’s breaking one of the windows with a rock he’s procured from somewhere. The crash is muffled but Clint still cringes, puts his hand on his gun. “Barnes?”

Bucky catches his disgruntled expression. “What?”

“Did you check if the front door was already open?”

“...no,” Bucky says mutinously, as Clint nudges it open with his boot. For a second Clint thinks he’s going to have the rock thrown at his head, but then Bucky just sighs and elbows his way past and into the empty house. Clint doesn’t laugh at him, because then he’ll definitely end up with a rock denting his skull.

There aren’t any lights on in the sheriff’s house, and they can’t risk turning them on in case someone sees. Clint tries to light a match and Bucky snuffs it out immediately with a dark look, so he makes do with the moonlight filtering into the house. Luckily, it’s a full moon and Rumlow has a lot of windows in his house design. Clint glances out the window and sees a few figures in the shadows, but none of them are heading this way.

“I’ll check if there’s anything upstairs,” Bucky says. “You stay down here, see if there’s anything in the paperwork.”

“The paperwork,” Clint grumbles as Bucky heads upstairs. It’s Bucky’s form of revenge for pointing out the front door. There’s always something more exciting upstairs, usually in the bedrooms. Now Clint gets to wander around the boring parts of the house and look at all the dull shit that the sheriff does in his spare time.

He finds a nice-looking bottle of whiskey and takes a swig, and then he starts to open drawers and cupboards. Clint finds a curious-looking wood engraving that looks like a skull when he turns it a few degrees to the left and holds it up to the light. Other than that, he finds a few unimpressive knives, some paper, and some gun oil.

There’s a locked room at the back of the house and _that’s _interesting at least. It takes Clint a few seconds to pick the lock and then he’s inside, taking in the sight of the heavy-duty safe in the corner of the dusty room. He edges closer to it, checks out the sides, kicks at the front with the toes of his boots. It doesn’t budge an inch and he sighs. There’s no way he’s going to be able to break in without some equipment.

“Hell,” he mutters to himself. He’s hoping that Bucky’s found some sort of dark secret upstairs, because he hasn’t found jackshit.

Clint doesn’t hear the gun’s safety click off but he does see the faint gleam of the metal from the corner of his eye, freezes in the middle of kicking the safe again. This leaves him with his foot still in the air, balancing uncomfortably as he turns his face the few inches he needs to look at the figure in the closed doorway.

It’s Steve. Of _course _it’s Steve.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” Steve says.

“I know, deputy,” Clint replies. “That’s… the point? Come to think of it, have you seen me do anything that I’m _supposed _to do?”

Steve stares him down a minute longer. Clint isn’t particularly afraid of Steve Rogers, but he does have to admit that the man has an alarmingly intense look on his face at all times. It’d be charming if it wasn’t for the gun that could potentially kill him at any moment. He decides that staring back is probably his best option at this point.

“What’re you doing here, Barton?”

“Looking around,” Clint says. “Finding suspicious things. Bucky’s upstairs if you want to stare at him like he’s the most delicious poisoned meat you’ve ever seen. Or, you know, talk about your feelings like normal people.”

“...I’m not here to talk to Bucky,” Steve says hesitantly.

“Of course you’re not,” Clint replies. Like anyone talks about their feelings anymore. Steve’s lowered the gun, so he takes the risk and puts his boot down on the ground instead of keeping it in the air. “If you’re here to watch me do things to him, can we go somewhere else? I don’t like the stories about this Rumlow guy, which is why I’m here in the first place.”

“I- what? That’s not,” Steve says. “You want to do that _again?_”

Clint blinks at him. “It’s not like it was a hardship for either of us. Although it would have been more entertaining if you’d decided to join in.”

Steve just stares at him again. Clint squints slightly and can’t see if there’s a blush or not. Now he’s really regretting letting Bucky snuff out that candle. He likes the blush. It makes him want to try and get him even more red in the face and that is _not _appropriate when he’s trying to figure out the sheriff. He’s still thinking about bad things.

“I heard about what you did in Copper Creek,” Steve says. “You killed twenty people. The townsfolk there still want to thank you for what you did.”

“That was ten years ago,” Clint answers thoughtfully. He’d only had his bow, back then, and he’d had bandages over both ears as he’d shot arrow after arrow until his fingers were bleeding. It had come out as a success, in the end, but he still prefers Bucky’s presence over the one-man vigilantism. He just prefers Bucky in general.

“You’re still an outlaw,” Steve says and yeah, there it is. Still a criminal. “Are you going to kill Rumlow?”

“If I have to,” Clint replies. He’s not going to sugarcoat it - if Rumlow is doing something shady that could hurt people, Clint’s getting rid of the man. It’s what he does. He doesn’t normally mess with the law too much, but he’s not particularly uncomfortable with the idea of killing a sheriff who’s causing more harm than good.

He does feel bad about that conflicted look on Steve’s face. “Is Bucky going to be part of it?”

“I think he’s more trigger-happy than I am,” Clint admits. “Usually I do the theatrics and he does the main event, it’s how we work. He likes having a gun in his hand.”

Clint can barely see Steve’s face in the darkness of the room. He can still see the distinct frown sitting on those lips, though, and he sighs. “I know you think I made him bad, or lured him into committing crimes against the law somehow, but I-”

“I know it wasn’t you,” Steve answers.

Clint blinks.

“Bucky does whatever he wants to do,” Steve continues when Clint doesn’t say anything. “It’s hard to do anything to stop it once he’s made up his mind. He’s just as stubborn as I am, he’s just better at hiding it. I know you didn’t push him into anything.”

“Huh,” Clint says. 

Steve sighs out a breath so loud that Clint hears it clearly in the silence of the dark room. There’s a faint rustling and Clint twitches nervously, but nothing bad happens. He realizes a second later that Steve’s just moving back a few steps towards the window, tries to relax. It doesn’t work, but that doesn’t matter because Steve’s still talking.

“I apologize for the way I’ve been towards you,” he continues hesitantly, face illuminated by the moonlight. “I just- I missed Bucky so much and then he came back _different _and I blamed you for it. He’s not even that different, it’s just… hard.”

“I can imagine,” Clint answers. “I met Natasha when she was only a confused kid with a mean right hook. Still do a double-take sometimes when I see her now.”

“I always thought it’d be Buck and me, together forever,” Steve says absently, and Clint feels a pang of guilt even though it isn’t his fault. “And then he came back an outlaw, with a _partner_, and the worst part was that I liked you too.”

Clint suddenly feels less guilty. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Steve says. Clint can’t tell what that tone of voice means. It could be anything from guilt to resignation to something else entirely. Steve’s looking out the window like he’s going to find answers out on the dirty street. Clint’s pretty sure there’s nothing out there, but he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t know how to react to this new information, or even what Steve’s wanting out of it.

Steve glances back at him. “What’re you thinking about?”

“I don’t know,” Clint says honestly. “I think I might’ve drank some of Natasha’s special drink and now I’m hallucinating this entire conversation. I’m just hoping I haven’t wandered out into the desert again.”

Steve laughs at him. It’s a nice sound. “You do that a lot?”

“Once or twice,” Clint replies. “Maybe more than that. Bucky usually finds me and drags me back before I get too lost.”

There’s a knock on the door and they both jump. It’s a pattern that Clint recognizes, though, and he edges a few steps closer to it. Steve doesn’t raise his gun, doesn’t even make a move to stop him. He’s just watching, some element of defeat in his eyes as Clint hesitates.

Bucky’s voice murmurs out on the other side of the door. Clint doesn’t catch whatever he says - it’s hard, sometimes, without seeing his lips move - but Steve must, because he straightens up.

Steve makes a hand gesture for him to leave. Clint stares at him and the room is silent for a few long seconds as he tries to process this. Steve’s letting him go? Steve’s letting him go. Maybe _he’s _the one who drank the black stuff under Natasha’s bed. Bucky taps at the other side of the door again and Clint grasps the handle, takes one last look at Steve.

_Go_, Steve mouths at him.

Clint doesn’t know what to make of it, so he slips out the door and shuts it behind him, too fast for Bucky to get more than a glimpse into the room. Bucky looks briefly concerned and Clint grabs at his jaw, kisses him carefully. The concern fades a little after that.

“You find anything?”

“In there? Nah,” Clint says. “Nothing that’d be any help. I’m beat, though. Try another place tomorrow?”

“Hey,” Clint says, still weirdly unsettled by everything that’s going on. “Let me fuck with your hair.”

Bucky must catch on to the tension vibrating through Clint’s body, because he doesn’t break out with a biting comment or a derisive snort. Instead he nudges the table out of the way and sits at Clint’s feet, leans back against him. Clint takes it for the invitation it is and starts carding through the damp strands, trying to work through a few tangles.

He starts separating sections of hair automatically, doesn’t realize he’s working in braids until he blinks and looks down. He’s got to start trying more intricate updos. Bucky wouldn’t stay still for that long, though, and Clint isn’t going to make him. Maybe one day he can convince Bucky to head back west to the folks who’d given him the bow, they liked doing hair.

“You wanted to kiss Steve,” Bucky says after a while. It’s not accusatory in the slightest, just a statement. Clint doesn’t dispute it. “It’s not just that you want to know him in the biblical sense, is it? You like him.”

“I like _you_,” Clint answers firmly. “I’m with you, for as long as you want me. I’m not going to run off with some man of the law - hell, he wouldn’t even _want _to, you don’t see the way he looks at you-”

“I’m not suggestin’ you run off with him,” Bucky says, shifts to glare at him and then winces when it tugs on his hair. Clint moves to let go, but Bucky turns to face forward and then keeps talking, sounding as determined as anything. “It’s still you and me, but. What if it was you and me _and _Stevie?”

Clint thinks about that while he finishes off the braid. Tries to figure out how it’d work. The same as it does now but with Steve in the mix, he supposes. It’s less shocking than he expects it to be, but then again Clint’s been shocking people since he was eight. It’s not like this is any bigger than anything else he’s done.

All three of them together doesn’t sound that bad.

“Of course, Steve ain’t gonna consort with two law-breaking disgraces anyway,” Bucky says, voice neutral. “He always did get stuck on doing the right thing.”

“Rumlow isn’t the right thing,” Clint grumbles.

“Would you believe that your own sheriff’s crooked as a dog’s hind legs? ‘specially when you’re Steve,” Bucky replies. “He’s always been in love with being the hero, he’s not going to side with us no matter what happens. He’s supposed to bring us in so we can hang, and that’s that.”

“I don’t think he wants us to hang, actually,” Clint says absently. “So I guess we’re just going to have to convince him that we’re right.”

“Yeah, I don’t know how you’re gonna manage that,” Bucky says, drops his face against the side of his thigh. Clint curls inwards on him a little bit, presses his nose into Bucky’s hair. His arms go around Bucky’s shoulders, hold on tight enough that it’s probably uncomfortable. Bucky doesn’t complain, though, and his fingers loop around one of Clint’s wrists gently.

“We’re really playing with fire here, huh,” Clint mutters.

“I think you like doing that,” Bucky says, the amusement in his voice comforting. “We should try, at least.”

“Boys, I need this room for-” Natasha starts as she elbows open the door to the bedroom and then stops in the doorway. Clint rolls his head to the side so he can see her expression better. It doesn’t help - Natasha’s hard to read when he _isn’t _tired and confused.

“You need us to move?”

“Yes,” Natasha confirms, although she steps closer rather than throwing a shoe like she did last time. The look on her face is thoughtful and instead of kicking them out, she gently flicks at Clint’s forehead until he sits up and out of the way. Bucky’s head is tilted this way and that as she inspects his handiwork, and then she straightens and goes over to the ratty dresser.

Bucky and Clint exchange a slightly upside-down puzzled look.

“You’re not bad at that,” Natasha says. “If you weren’t technically on the run, I’d hire you to fix the hair on my girls. One thing, though.”

She turns around with a long, thin strip of metal with a set of black swirls on the end. It looks sharp on the other tip and Clint gives her a suspicious stare. It’s more of a medieval torture weapon than anything else. Natasha is unaffected by his stare, fiddles around with the braids before she sticks the spike through it and Clint realizes it’s supporting the updo.

“A gift,” she says simply. “Seen as you don’t bother with ties.”

“Thank you,” Bucky answers a little unexpectedly.

“Anytime,” Natasha replies. “Now get out of my brothel, I have customers.”

“So what’s the game plan here?”

“We go to his house and tell him what we want?” Bucky knocks back the shot in his hand, lets out a weary-sounding sigh. “You’re supposed to be the one who does all the talkin’, Barton, this ain’t my job.”

“You grew up with him,” Clint argues. “If anyone should be doing it, it’s you. He’s probably not even interested in me.”

“You didn’t see the way he looked at you,” Bucky says. “He’s interested. Don’t get all insecure on me now.”

Thor comes over with more drinks - he doesn’t even ask anymore, and Clint’s starting to wonder if they have a problem with drinking - and Bucky slides the glasses over to his side, glares when Clint tries to snag one. That’s not polite. He pouts and Thor procures another drink from nowhere, completely oblivious to the serious conversation they’re having.

Luckily, Bruce chooses that moment to appear, looking awkward and uncomfortable next to a dark-haired woman with a stormy expression. Clint keeps his attention on Bucky, kicks his feet up on Bucky’s thighs under the table.

“So, what? Hey, mister deputy, we’re really into the idea of courting you even though you’re supposed to arrest us on sight, please let us take you out for a drink?”

“Somethin’ like that,” Bucky says blandly, shoves his feet off. “Look, just. We’ve gotta try, right? God knows we’ve risked more for less.”

“You make a good point,” Clint replies, propping his cheek up with one hand. “What’re we going to do about the sheriff, though? We didn’t get any concrete evidence about whether Rumlow was up to something other than just being a jerk.”

“We’ve also _shot _people for less,” Bucky reasons. Clint can’t argue with that, so he makes a half-hearted attempt at a shrug and wonders if Steve will feel nice enough to give back his confiscated bow. He’s got plenty of other weapons, but the bow is one of a kind. He misses it.

“Steve first, though?”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “’specially because he’s here.”

Clint swivels around in his chair, catches sight of Steve standing there awkwardly in his deputy uniform. He always looks like his skin doesn’t quite fit properly, and Clint’s struck with the weirdest urge to try and help somehow. Maybe by touching him a whole lot. That’d be nice.

“Steve,” he calls in greeting, waves his glass.

He doesn’t get a reaction, and he’s about to get to his feet when there’s a jarring thump from across the table. Clint swivels his attention back in time to see Bucky drop, a looming figure with greasy hair standing over him with a plank of wood. A very familiar figure, and Clint’s heart stops beating until Rollins grabs Bucky by a handful of hair and Bucky makes a muffled groan.

He’s about to swing over the table and beat Rollins into a pulp when a gun presses against the back of his head. Clint freezes.

“What a surprise this is,” a man says as he approaches. “Jack says you’ve been causing us problems in other towns, and here you are again, like flies. We don’t take kindly to interference.”

Hydra, then. Clint hadn’t thought they’d make it this far south. This guy must be in charge, or at least higher-ranking than Rollins. Steve’s walking a couple of steps behind him, face completely blank, and Clint’s about to ask what the _hell _is going on when he sees the badge.

Oh, for god’s sake. The sheriff is part of Hydra.

They’ve started tying Bucky up and the guy pointing the gun at Clint hits him with it until he puts his hands behind his back. His mind is going at a million miles a second. Clint tries not to snarl when they take his guns and throw them on the table. They’re not going to just shoot them here - that’d be bad for Rumlow, if he’s sheriff. That means they’ve still got time to do something.

Rumlow’s people start shoving them towards the back exit, still pointing three different guns at them, and Clint chances a look over his shoulder at Steve, who’s looking blank still. There’s no way. There’s _no way_ Steve is part of this.

“Steve,” he says desperately. “Steve, they’re part of a gang that’s been destroying towns up north, you’ve got to-”

He’s hit for that outburst, so hard that his ears start ringing and don’t stop until they’re shoved outside. The sheriff and Steve follow them, and Steve’s not making any move to tell Rumlow to knock it off. Clint’s heart sinks.

“I’ll take care of them. Seen as you seem to be having some trouble with that, deputy,” Rumlow says with a feral grin.

One of his goons shove at Bucky and he stumbles, nearly falls. Clint tries to steady him without the use of his hands, clumsily squirms his way around until Bucky’s leaning up against him. The same man goes to shove them again and Clint bares his teeth. The man must value his fingers, because after that he backs off with a sneer. Rumlow is oblivious to all this because he’s too busy staring down Steve.

Steve’s face remains neutral. “What do you want me to do, then?”

“Why don’t you watch the situation at the saloon? Make sure the mayor stays nice and safe for us.”

Clint’s heart sinks. He feels cold all of a sudden and he’s not sure why. He’s been sentenced to death a million times by now, it’s not anything different. Bucky, too. Maybe it’s the way Steve turns and walks away from them, almost mechanical in his movements as he heads away from the group.

Rumlow snorts and turns back to them once Steve disappears.

Clint tries not to display any sort of reaction, but it must fail because Rumlow laughs, a low dark noise that makes Clint wish desperately for his bow, a gun, anything. Instead, they’re shoved in the direction of the road, and god knows where they’re being taken. Clint’s still mentally replaying the image of Steve walking away.

“This is bad,” he mutters.

Bucky doesn’t have any sympathy for either of them. “You _think_?”

“You’re going to tie us to a train track,” Bucky says dully. “Could you be _any more _of a jackass? There’s just hair under your hat and nothing else, huh.”

“Can’t be a joker if your body parts are strewn all over the railroad,” one of the women says with glee.

Clint tries to kick him as she ties his ankles together. He manages to catch her in the knee but it’s a weak hit, completely ineffective. Clint wants to replace her eyes with poison-tipped arrows and do a jig on her corpse. To be fair he wants to do that with anyone who makes the often-fatal mistake of threatening Bucky Barnes, but still.

“I’m going to replace your innards with sand while your heart’s still beating,” Clint says when they stand up to admire their handiwork. He’d be happy to do it by hand, too.

Rumlow’s gang don’t feel very threatened. The woman who tied him glances around the dimly-lit tunnel and sighs, places her hands on her hips. Bucky shifts against his back and Clint’s oddly displeased about that particular thing, that they’re tied up back-to-back like this. He wants to see Bucky’s face, even in this terrible lighting.

Then again, he doesn’t want to watch Bucky die, so maybe this is for the best.

“You ain’t getting away with this,” Bucky says.

“Who’s going to stop us? You two are going to be feeding the ants soon,” a man replies flippantly. “Good fucking riddance, too.”

They turn and start walking down to the tunnel’s exit. Clint tugs at his bonds, first gently and then a little rougher, and swears under his breath. However bad these guys are at threats, they’re pretty damn good at knots. He’s not going to be able to twist out of it the way he can with handcuffs.

Next he tries moving his ankles, but that makes the rope press in tighter on his skin. He yanks at it again, lets out a frustrated sigh when the movement just makes him accidentally headbutt Bucky.

“Hell, Barton,” Bucky grumbles, sounding more subdued than usual. “Goddamn idiot. Don’t need to hurt me more than the train will.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint answers automatically. This isn’t his fault, but he can’t help wondering if there was something he could’ve done to avoid this.

Maybe he could’ve turned down Bucky’s company. Maybe he could’ve stopped himself from talking to the mysterious one-armed stranger with the attitude, from flirting with him and sharing rooms and even a horse. Except he _couldn’t _have, because Clint knows himself and he knows that his attraction to Bucky was inevitable.

Still, it’s a shame that it has to end like this.

Clint sighs, tips his head back so he’s gently knocking it against Bucky’s. He’s solid and warm, and Clint wishes he could twist around to press his face into Bucky’s hair. Still, it’s easier to talk about his feelings when he physically can’t look Bucky in the eye. All he can taste is dirt and blood, but at least he’s not alone.

“Hey,” he says. “If we have to die here, I’m glad that it’s. You know. Together.”

“I’d rather we didn’t die at all,” Bucky replies, which is typical Bucky. Clint can’t help the choked laugh that slips out of his throat. “But. Yeah. Thanks for… everything. All of it.”

“My pleasure,” Clint says. “You and me, buddy.”

There’s a long pause and Clint’s brain decides to turn to _Steve_, of all things. Steve, with his sad little face and his dedication to doing the right thing. He feels kind of guilty about upturning Steve’s life - the guy’s just doing what he can, in the end. It’s not his fault that the authorities took advantage of him.

“I hope they don’t kill him,” Clint says.

“I don’t think he _can _die,” Bucky replies, and it’s amusing that he knows exactly who Clint means. “He got sick most of the season in winter when he was a kid, and he’d be bedridden and wheezin’ the whole time, practically blue in the face. Thought he was gonna die on me. A few days later he’d be starting fights with the bullies up the road like nothing had happened.”

“I wish we could’ve had that talk,” he answers, feels melancholy sitting here in the dark. “I was planning things. Was gonna show him the best night of his life.”

“Would’ve been nice,” Bucky says. Pauses for a beat. “I was just plannin’ on sucking his brains out through his dick.”

Clint snickers. He can’t help it, they’re about to die a horrible death and he was going to sincerely romance the goddamn deputy who wanted to arrest them, and Bucky was just thinking about _sex_. That’s probably why he’d left his hair up in the braids - it wouldn’t get in the way like that, if he wanted to get his mouth on Steve’s dick.

Hang on.

“Bucky,” he says urgently. “Do you still have that hairpin Natasha gave you? The sharp one, is it-?”

“Fuck,” Bucky answers, just as urgent. “I think so. Can you see it?”

“Turn your head, I need to- no, the other way. That’s it.”

He can see the black metal in the twists of Buck’s hair, twists a little more. Bucky hisses in pain when the rope pulls against him and Clint tries his best to ignore it, because Bucky will be in a lot more pain if they _don’t _get out of here. He thanks whatever’s out there that he’s exceptionally bendy, tips his head just enough that he can get his teeth around the edge of the pin.

“Come on,” Bucky grits out.

Clint would tell him to stop nagging, but it’s hard when his mouth is busy trying to remove the pin. It tugs a little and Bucky swears quietly. Clint tries to ignore him, tries to change angles without accidentally stabbing Bucky in the head some more. He doesn’t succeed that much, but then he pulls back and the pin comes free.

“Finally,” Clint says, or at least tries to say. It comes out pretty garbled.

Bucky’s saying something but he’s blocking it out, delicately drops the hairpin over his own shoulder. It catches on his shirt unhelpfully and he sighs. Bucky shifts against his back and it stabs him in the spine briefly and then falls to the ground. Clint huffs out a sigh.

“If you pull this off I’m going to marry you,” Bucky says, and Clint _does _hear that one.

“I don’t think the Church will recognize that,” he answers doubtfully. “I’ll take your gratitude in form of the most expensive whiskey you can find, though.”

Bucky snorts, and Clint’s scrabbling fingers catch on the hairpin, grabbing it carefully. It takes him a few seconds to flip it around and press the sharper end against his ropes, start rubbing as fast as he can. It’s not very fast at all, but he’s trying.

Bucky remains patient for all of a few seconds. “Is it working?”

“I don’t know,” Clint replies, tries to keep the irritation out of his voice. “You’re the one sleeping with me, you should know whether I have eyes in my back or not.”

Bucky sighs, and Clint keeps working at the ropes.

“Look,” Bucky says, a while later. It might have been a few seconds, it might have been an hour. It’s hard to tell the time of day when you’re tied up in a dark tunnel. “I’ll raise the stakes. You get us out of here and I’ll let you kill Rumlow.”

“That doesn’t help me whatsoever, Barnes,” Clint answers, a little strained. “I need to concentrate and I can’t do that if I’m thinking about all the different ways I’d like to remove the sheriff’s head from his body.”

“Tell me it’s working,” Bucky says. There’s enough desperation in his voice that Clint feels the guilt stab at him. This was a stupid idea. There’s no way that he’s going to be able to cut through ropes with a decoration, even if it is a sharp one, and now he’s given Bucky hope and snatched it away just as quickly. Clint’s an idiot. He should just stop and let them die with some semblance of dignity, he should-

The rope snaps.

“Fuckin' Christ,” Bucky breathes. “Did you just-?”

“Yeah,” Clint says hurriedly. “Give me a minute and I can get out of here.”

The ties around his wrists loosen up enough that he can change position on the rope and saw through it faster. It doesn’t feel like there’s any air left in his chest. Clint sighs out a breath, waits a breath before he tries again. Bucky’s squirming now as well, but it isn’t tugging as much as it was earlier and another part of the rope breaks under Clint’s fingers.

“Got you,” Clint says, flexes his wrists.

His hands come free and he has to physically restrain himself from sobbing with relief. Oh, god, they’re not dying today. He’s not letting Bucky die here today. Clint throws the hairpin aside with barely-contained glee and reaches down to grab for the knife they hadn’t taken out of his boot.

It’s easy from there, cutting off the ropes around his feet and chest to escape. He lets out a long stream of curses as his muscles twinge from being stuck in the same position for so long, but it doesn’t stop him from shuffling around on his knees to get the ropes still holding Bucky in place.

“You can do whatever you want to me,” Bucky says and Clint laughs weakly, pulls the ropes off of his legs. “Anything you want, wherever you want.”

“I could do that before,” Clint reasons as Bucky’s hand grasps at the back of his neck and pulls him closer. Bucky’s next breath is right up close to Clint’s ear and it sounds shaky on the edges, slightly worrying. Clint gets an arm around his back and holds on a little tighter than necessary. “Let’s get out of here before the train actually _does _come.”

“We have to find Steve,” Bucky says as Clint pulls him to his feet. He stumbles and Clint steadies him, keeps a hand around his waist as they turn towards the closest entrance to the tunnel.

“What are we going to say? It’s not like he’ll believe us. If he didn’t get it before, he’s not going to get it now,” Clint answers. “Maybe we should just cut our losses and keep going once Rumlow’s dead, Buck.”

“Aren’t you getting tired of this? All the running around, never stopping,” Bucky says. “I know we’re doing good things, but… I’m goddamn exhausted, Clint.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, feels it ring true in his bones. “Me too, partner. Me too.”

Turns out it’s still afternoon, when they step out of the shadows. Clint blinks at the afternoon sunlight blearily and it finally clicks that they’ve survived this. Jesus, they might be unkillable. The immortal Clint ‘Hawkeye’ Barton and Bucky Barnes.

“We should get you an outlaw name,” he tells Bucky, who grunts noncommittally. “Then you can throw it around when we retire. What do you want to do when we take a break? Do hair at the brothel?”

“I was thinking we could get a store,” Bucky says absently. “Sell things to travelling folks. Flour and shit. Stay in the same place for a while. We wouldn’t even have to leave the building if we didn’t want to.”

“You make that sound pretty good,” Clint answers. “Yeah, I don’t see why not. You have to run the place, though, you can be in charge for once. I’m staying in bed ‘til noon.”

“Fine,” Bucky agrees. “Where do you think Rumlow’ll be? Should we sneak up on him or start some kind of a-”

“You boys talking about me?”

Clint stops so suddenly that Bucky nearly trips over his own feet, ends up half in front of him. The daylight is fading away but Rumlow’s figure is still sharply visible, in the normal sheriff’s outfit but his hat nowhere to be found. He’s pointing a revolver at them and Clint’s really regretting making that decision to put his knife away now. Not that a knife could stop them from getting shot.

“Hell,” Bucky says.

Clint’s inclined to agree. He tries to pull Bucky behind him and Bucky doesn’t move an inch, seems more interested in staying directly between Clint and the gun. Goddamnit. Rumlow’s face is somewhere between a grin and a snarl and while Clint doesn’t normally feel intimidated by being held at gunpoint, there’s something rabid in Rumlow’s eyes that is scary.

“I told those idiots that you’d find a way to escape,” he says. “Like the roaches in the saloon. Except I can get rid of you pretty easy.”

“_Can _you,” Bucky mutters, too quiet for Rumlow to overhear him. Clint doesn’t really think it’s the time for that sort of attitude, but he’s not going to start that argument now. Bucky’s _ghost_ would probably keep arguing with him until the end of time, and Clint doesn’t have the motivation for that.

“First I’m gonna shoot you in the knees,” Rumlow snarls. “Then the gut. And then I’m going to leave you here to bleed out in a puddle of your own blood. And then I’m going to go home, have my whiskey, and then I’ll set fire to this godforsaken town for once and for all-”

The gunshot is loud enough that Bucky flinches with his whole body, curls back into Clint’s chest. Clint just squeezes his eyes shut, because he can’t watch this, he can’t watch Bucky get hurt. He’d rather Rumlow take him first. It occurs to him a few terrifying seconds later that Bucky’s not crying out in pain, hasn’t made any noise at all to indicate he’s hurt.

He cracks one eye open as Rumlow falls to the ground with a thump, eyes already glazing over. And then he realizes Steve’s standing there with a smoking gun in his hand, blue eyes colder than he’s ever seen them, lips set in a thin line.

Well. At least they don’t have to go looking for him this way.

Clint doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t _know _what to say. It feels like his brain has just ground to a complete halt, and he’s not sure if there was something in the water or the air or something else entirely. Bucky’s still curled into Clint’s chest, and neither of them move. Clint’s frozen. There’s no way that Steve Rogers just shot his own sheriff.

“Come on,” Steve says with a jerk of his chin. “We’d better get moving before it gets too dark to see.”

Bucky doesn’t say anything and Clint’s got no idea what he thinks about all of this. They just came face-to-face with death and got rescued by _Steve Rogers_. Clint risks a look at the corpse on the ground. Nope, definitely dead, there’s blood everywhere, no chance that it had been a mistake or a hallucination.

Steve’s still holding the revolver, and now Rumlow’s not in the way it’s pointed directly at Clint and Bucky. It’s actually _more _scary than Rumlow was.

Clint tries a question. “Moving where?”

“Back to town,” Steve says with a tilt of his head. The afternoon sun’s catching his hair, making it look red at the edges. “Gotta get you two patched up, right?”

“So you can arrest us again,” Bucky ventures hesitantly.

“So I can look after you two, and then clear your names with the rest of the town,” Steve corrects. Smiles, a little fragile around the edges. “Maybe buy you a drink before you get out of here. I figure I owe you that much, at least.”

Bucky straightens up a little at that. Clint’s still trying to get his brain back online over the sight of Rumlow’s body in the dirt because _Steve Rogers killed him_. He’s still staring a little bit when Steve pockets his gun and kicks the corpse over with a thump. It's more violent than he expects and he stares. Bucky reaches for Clint’s hand and links their fingers together as Steve removes the sheriff’s badge and straightens.

He looks at it absently as Bucky and Clint watch him. There’s something irreparably _sad _about it, even if Clint’s not a fan of the law.

“All that time spent trying to do good things and I was doing the opposite,” Steve says. “Guess I should have been trusting my gut.”

Bucky squeezes Clint’s hand briefly and then tugs him closer to Steve. Steve remains completely distracted by the bloodstained badge until Bucky gets right up in his personal space, tips his head up so their noses are nearly touching. Bucky lets go of Clint’s hand then, and Clint can’t quite stifle his smile when Bucky kisses Steve.

It’s interesting to watch Steve’s expression flicker from confusion to shock and then to something else entirely as his hands go up to cup Bucky’s face so carefully it hurts a little to watch. Clint averts his eyes after that, not-so-accidentally kicks Rumlow in the head. It’s not as satisfying when he can’t react.

“I’m glad you came back,” Steve murmurs.

“You should be,” Bucky says, but it’s edged with affection.

They’re endearing. Clint wants to roll them up and keep them safe for the rest of their lives. Knowing his luck, they’ll probably both outlive him anyway. Clint’s vaguely aware that a normal man might not be pleased about his partner and another man kissing, but he’d never claimed to be normal. He _does _want that drink that Steve was offering.

Bucky grabs him by the side of his shirt and tugs him closer. Clint goes, because he’s a little hazy around the edges and distracted - he ends up pressed against Bucky’s back, glancing up at where Steve’s smiling faintly at his front. Like this, Clint can only see the edge of Bucky’s smirk, but it’s extremely satisfied-looking.

“I feel like we’re just here to keep him warm,” Clint comments to Steve.

“_I _feel like there’s something else to it,” Steve says with amusement. Clint doesn’t really comprehend what he means by that until Steve’s mouth is on his, and then his brain makes a sound similar to the time he’d scraped a knife along the side of a metal cart.

Steve’s mouth is softer than he expects it to be.

“Oh,” he says when he remembers how to talk. “You’re-?”

“Kiss him again,” Bucky orders, but it’s directed at Steve. “Keep going until he stops talking.”

Steve huffs out a laugh and complies.

Clint… is not complaining.

“I take it you’ll be leaving after this?”

“Bucky wants to open a store,” Clint supplies cheerfully. Bucky elbows him in the ribs and Clint yelps, backs off into the relative safety of Steve’s side. Steve settles an arm over him and Clint smirks at Bucky, although it’s too dark now for him to see it. Bucky must pick it up anyway because he sidles closer a second later, tucks his arm around Clint’s waist.

It’s nice. Clint can see why Bucky had liked it.

“The general store here’s been abandoned for a long time,” Steve says. “Folks think it’s haunted.”

“Should we have gotten ready for a shootout or something? Rumlow’s goons are still around.”

“Sam wasn’t part of it,” Steve says. “I told him what was going on and he helped me round them up. Most of them were too drunk to complain when we locked them up. I think they’re sleeping. They’re not smart enough to escape.”

“Huh,” Clint answers thoughtfully, as they’re heading towards the saloon. He squirms out of their hold when he sees two familiar shapes tied up next to the saloon. One is so white he can spot it even in the dim lighting coming from the saloon’s windows. “Hey, our horses! Lucky, I’m back!”

“He wasn’t this excited to see _me_,” Steve comments behind him as Clint cheerfully runs a hand over , although there’s more humour than offense in his voice.

“Welcome to life with Clint Barton,” Bucky replies dryly. “He’ll claim he likes you the best and then you leave him alone for five minutes and he’s run off and left you for a horse.”

“I see,” Steve says. “Oh, there’s the mayor, I can tell him about what happened. Mayor Pierce!”

Clint glances up to see the mayor on the other side of the horses to him, ambling along the dirt road. He realizes at that moment that he’s never actually seen the man before now, which is strange. The older man catches sight of Steve and Bucky before he sees Clint. The look on Pierce’s face transforms from something neutral to overwhelming rage almost instantly.

“You _idiot_, Rogers,” Pierce snarls. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? All my men are in the jail - and where is Brock Rumlow? He’s supposed to be taking care of the outlaws. Tell me the other one’s dead at least, and you’re not completely incompetent-”

The white horse kicks out as Pierce stops behind it and there’s a sickening _crunch _as its hooves make contact with his skull.

There’s not as much blood as Clint’s expecting from such a loud noise. He nearly claps his hands over his head. Pierce’s head might be a little differently-shaped than it was before as he falls to the ground. Clint blinks real slow and then turns his head to stare at Bucky instead, as the horse makes a huffing noise like it’s unimpressed and then proceeds to ignore the rest of them.

“Fucking horse,” Bucky says, a hint of a awe on his face.

“Fucking horse,” Clint agrees.

“I’m calling him Alpine,” Bucky adds.

“So ‘fucking horse’ is his Christian name, then,” Steve says with amusement. Clint lets out a surprised bark of laughter, reaches over to pat him on the shoulder approvingly. Steve positively _lights up _at the attention and Bucky’s looking at them with barely-suppressed delight. Clint’s makes a mental note to do that more often.

“Yeah, why not. Let’s go, I need a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized when publishing this that it has a Good Omens turn in the sense that the main two characters don't have any hand in saving the town. Bucky and Clint are idiots. I love them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After editing - read: shaving down the parts where I repeat myself erratically because I was sick in the middle of writing this - the epilogue was so short I felt it was silly to make y'all wait two days.

“Welcome to the general store!”

“Curious,” a familiar voice comments, and Clint turns around to see Natasha inspecting the jumbled mess of Thor’s alcohol they’re trying to sell. “Tony sold you the place, then?”

“Actually, he just gave it to us,” Clint says. “I told him that wasn’t how you sell things, but he didn’t seem to care. He thought it was haunted too.”

“So,” Natasha says. “I don’t see any ghosts. Did you scare them off with your smell?

“No,” Clint answers petulantly as he’s nearly bowled over by a blur of grey. He grabs Pietro by the back of his shirt, yanks him backwards before he can escape outside. Pietro’s feet are still pedaling in the air as Clint turns him around and then drops him back on the ground. He runs off to the back of the general store instead and Clint sighs heavily.

Natasha’s gaze slides past him and fixes on something over his shoulder. She looks vaguely bewildered, and Clint doesn’t have to look behind him to know Wanda’s sitting there, eating the stock they’re supposed to sell.

“Turns out the ghosts were just a couple of homeless kids,” Clint explains. “Bucky wanted to sell them off, but I figured some extra hands might help.”

“Hmm,” Natasha says. “I don’t babysit.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Clint replies. “They’re terrors, Nat, I should’ve let Rumlow kill me.”

“Hmm,” she says again. “How do Bucky and Steve feel about them?”

“Bucky loves them. Right, Bucky?”

“Sure,” Bucky says distractedly, poking at a shelf that’s leaning to the left in an alarming sort of way. “Did you pick up that box of flour I asked you to get? We ran out yesterday and I need to restock the basement.”

“...yes?” He doesn’t say it convincingly enough and Bucky sighs heavily, starts heading for the door. “Come on, Buck, at least try to sound excited about our illegitimate children.”

“Yeehaw,” Bucky says flatly, and then turns and leaves. After a second there’s a thump of tiny feet and Wanda goes trailing after him.

Clint briefly considers being dramatic and decides to leave it alone, just this once. He can be dramatic next week when he gets to watch Rollins hang. Although Steve might not appreciate that, and even Bucky would ignore him for a few days if he attempted theatrics. The only downside of having Steve is that now there’s twice as much disapproval when he does idiotic things.

It’s worth it, really.

Natasha wanders over to the other end of the store and Clint goes back to what he was supposed to be doing, which was setting up the shelves. He’s not doing a very good job, but that’s why he gets paid for his hair-wrangling skills instead. Even Alpine has a few braids on his mane, which was a proud moment for him considering the horse murdered someone.

“Is that _you?_”

Clint looks down at Pietro’s wide blue eyes, then back at the wanted poster he’s sticking to the wall. It’s already starting to curl at one corner, and as he pokes it back into place it immediately starts trying to escape again. He sighs, gives up and turns back to Pietro. No matter how many times he sees it, the kid’s hair is still _shockingly _white.

He offers Pietro a grin. “I don’t know. You tell me - do I look like an outlaw to you?”

“You look _boring_,” Pietro supplies. Points at the poster. “He’s awesome and you’re not.”

Clint rolls his eyes. What a brat. “I’m going to throw you into the street. Even better, I’ll tell Natasha you’re being a brat and she’ll lock you away, give you nothing but bread and water for the rest of your miserable existence.”

Pietro lets out an indignant squawk and runs away, scrambles behind Steve’s legs as he walks into the store. Steve looks down at Pietro clinging to his knee and then back at Clint, the exasperation written in every inch of his body.

He doesn’t even need to say anything out loud because the expression on his face says everything. Pietro sticks his tongue out at Clint where Steve can’t see, and Clint starts plotting to put horse shit in his bed. Why did he keep these kids, again?

“He’s an asshole,” Clint says. “You should be protecting _me _from _him_, not the other way around.”

“Stop picking on someone less than a third of your age,” Steve replies.

“Aw, Steve, c’mon.”

“No,” Steve says, but he lets Clint kiss him anyway. Pietro makes a disgusted noise and leaves them alone, Clint enjoying the feel of Steve’s muscles under his fingers and Steve tucking his fingers into Clint’s pockets. “Sam’s enjoying his new job,” he says when Clint lets him breathe.

“Fancy new sheriff,” Clint says, waggling his eyebrows. “You think he’ll let us borrow the jail for a day? I never got to finish off that blowjob.”

Steve covers his face with one hand. “Please don’t mention that to him, he’ll make fun of me until I die.”

“I’m going to,” Clint answers cheerfully. “I like Wilson, he’s fun. Also he didn’t hang us, so I figure I owe him for that.”

“He said you’re not allowed to shoot anyone unless they’re trying to kill you first,” Steve replies.

Clint’s… probably not going to pay much heed to that, but he can _try _to behave, if just because he’s pretty happy with Steve and Bucky and this weird little town. He’s even happy with Wanda and Pietro, although he’d never tell Pietro that because his head’s already big enough. Steve looks around the store curiously, gives Clint a stiflingly proud smile.

“Think you can give up the outlaw life for this?”

“I can try,” Clint says honestly, and that seems to be enough, for now.


End file.
